


Reprieve

by Silex



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crossover Fandom, Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Character Study, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Monsters, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:01:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29929671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silex/pseuds/Silex
Summary: Belias the Gigas waited with no end in sight, nothing to break the monotony of his task until a chance meeting.
Relationships: Shiva (Final Fantasy VII)/Belias the Gigas (Final Fantasy XII)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1
Collections: Teratophilia Trade 2021





	Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crookedspoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/gifts).



Belias waited in the Mist. Tied more closely to the physical than most through his pact, willingly given to the Dynast King, he was acutely aware of the passage of time. The years trickling by meant nothing, but the awareness of it weighed upon him.

He had agreed to guard the tomb against all unworthy of what lay within, a fitting task as he himself had been unworthy from the moment of his creation, two half-things forced into one being, a failed first attempt by the gods to make something that was pleasing to them.

Had it been any wonder that he turned against them and then so readily given himself to a master that found in him some merit?

His punishment and duty were things he endured without complaint, for there was only himself to talk to and he never enjoyed the answers that he found there. A beast cursed with reason and a being of wisdom and rationality possessed of the might of a monster, it was better for him to be bound to a duty such as his rather than dreaming freely in the Mist as his kin did. Their dreams were their madness and ambition, foolish children imagining that they might surpass their ineffable creators.

The Mist, being what it was, the non-place that filled the gaps between worlds, reality and possibility, there were times he got glimpses of pasts that never were, him a beloved king among the realm of men, a joyful and beautiful servant to his creators, and futures that would never come to pass, he and the other Espers triumphant rulers over the empty ruin of their creation.

The others lived in these visions and Belias was thankful to be aware of their deceitful nature. He was proud of what he endured, alone without even the comfort of dreams.

The Dynast King had seen in him a worth that the gods had not and that was enough.

Though there were times when other worlds and the entities that lived between them passed by close enough to reach out and touch their shadows.

He was able to restrain himself from lifting his hands, but the beast that was also him would let its claws trace eddies through infinite probabilities. The touch was meaningless, harmless, doing nothing across the vast expanse separating him from what he saw, only serving to make its distance more apparent.

For him there was no dream of redemption, for he had been cast out prior to his rebellion, so when he sensed something approaching, he assumed it to be in the realm of mortals, someone seeking to claim for themselves the legacy of the Dynast King.

They would not be the first so vainglorious as to believe that such strength was in their power to hold. The tomb of the King was filled with the dead, not just those so loyal that that gave themselves willingly to guard his eternal repose, but also would-be thieves, now adding another layer of protection to the sanctum. The Mist was heavy enough in the air that not even the dead lay still for long.

In time Belias imagined that the tomb would be impenetrable and that was good.

He was not unlike his kin enough to believe that there were some things that mortals did not deserve to wield.

That time had yet to come, if it ever would, so there was still the chance that the intruder might reach him, their ambition once again bringing him into the realm of mortals so that he could slay them.

The Dynast King had been far wiser than was a mortal’s right, his wisdom challenging that of the gods, knowing that those who sought the Espers would only bring ruination.

Belias waited, the rage of the beast he was a part of growing to a roaring fire, fueling power that only he could control, albeit barely.

Perhaps the gods had been right in being horrified by the failure that he was, helplessly holding the reigns of a power that was barely within his control, a charioteer struggling against the might of wild chocobos, seeking to steer that which fought against them as it charged down its own path.

He was, by nature, a thing that needed to be bound.

The beast, with its own thoughts, waited eagerly for the chance to prove itself.

He waited more cautiously, for some thieves were possessed of an almost admirable guile. Those that were able to bypass the wards came prepared for him, for no secret was hidden so thoroughly that it was truly lost and no lock with any hope of opening again was so clever that it couldn’t be picked by a deft enough hand.

The beast’s bellows of anticipation were locked away by the helm muzzling it. The intruder would receive no warning.

The presence he sensed grew nearer and he struggled to glimpse into the world, bringing in into blurry focus through the Mist, hoping to watch the approach of the one so bold as to intrude upon the tomb. He saw nothing.

The beast huffed silently and shook its head, as though dismissing his efforts.

The presence was not without then, but within, striding as boldly through the Mist as one would walk on solid ground, and when the whims of the Mist would allow no such passage, they swam though it as a fish might, flew as a bird of wings of power and pure will.

They approached and he readied himself for a fight the likes of which the world had not beheld for countless ages.

There were beings, gods and their ilk, which could traverse the Mist as a man might traverse an open plain and they were not to be trifled with. He and his kin were a small number among an infinite many. There were things that existed that could bring even the most powerful of the Espers low.

Having rebelled against the gods once already Belias held no such reserves about facing whatever approached.

Power was visible before form, a faint blue glow, a light that would never warm, drew near.

The being was easily his equal, likely his greater, unbound and free to travel as they pleased.

A visitor from another world.

It had never before occurred to him that a thief might come from elsewhere, but it made sense.

His kin and fought their creators and the gods themselves were prone to jealousy. That a god might also be a thief, seeking to take what they did not create made sense. Those of his kind who were greater than he had bound what power they could to themselves, claiming the power of minor gods and goddesses as their own.

He was barely able to claim himself in his entirety as his own so he would be an easy target.

A god, if they so wished, could break the bindings, weak with age, that held him to the Dynast King, a mortal whose bones were long since dust.

He had a will of his own though, as did the beast, and he would not be an easy prize. The entirety of him would fight and it would be a mighty battle indeed.

Form followed power and in time he was able to fully perceive that which approached, a goddess from a far off place and time.

Her form, lithe and blue, was that of humanity perfected, diaphanous veils floating around her, buoyed by a breeze that existed only for her.

He stood his ground, waited to see what she would do as they silently tested each other, finding their powers opposed.

She was a goddess of ice and cold, healing and succor. He was a being of rage and flame, strength barely constrained by reason.

The wind that she carried with her reached out to him and he held his staff at the ready.

“You have been here for a long time,” her words echoed in the endless distance between them.

He nodded stiffly, the most he was able to do given his form and his own limited abilities. It was beyond him to project his own voice through the Mist, even if it had been able to escape the heavy helm upon his head.

“And watched many worlds,” she continued raising a hand to gracefully run her fingers through the empty space around her, visions of places he could never touch flickering to life in their passing.

Through the frost that followed her motion Belias watched reflections of worlds in the moment of their creation, rising from nothing, and in their destruction, falling back into primordial chaos, and every moment in between. It was as beautiful as it was pointless. So many places that may as well never exist, if they even had in the first place.

“So have I.”

That similarity, so superficially profound, meant nothing.

The beast panted in ire, ripples of heat rising from its helm, captive roars reverberating within the metal.

He was similarly frustrated by the nonanswer, and similarly unable to give voice to that frustration.

“The world I am of has grown distant from me, for time and progress are a form of distance, and yours has followed a similar path,” she continued, as though he’d ever had the right to claim the world from which he’d come in the same way she could claim hers, “There are moments of nearness that bring them closer than most and I believe those moments have brought us together.”

He shook with silent, bitter laughter. It was a pretty lie for her to tell herself, that anything other than infinitesimal, uncaring chance had brought them near enough to be aware of each other.

“I am lonely,” eyes like shards of glacier lowered, as she spoke something closer to the truth, “And in my world, as it is now, I am more akin to an Esper such as yourself, than I am to what I once was.”

Another pretty lie, if gods grew distant from their creation it was of their own volition. If she wanted she could call herself forth for more than just an instant, as more than just a fraction of her own power and usher in a new age of perfect, unchanging cold.

It was not impossible, through shadows in the Mist he had watched as many worlds end in ice as fire.

Perhaps that was why the gods chose to grow distant from their creations, though a goddess as minor as she seemed was unlikely to bring more than war and ruination on a small scale. A continent at most might fall to her grasp, though if others were to involve themselves the devastation would be far greater.

Worlds were enduring places once created though, and gods had little difficulty in remaking what they had already made previously.

The thought stirred an ach in him that he had thought long dead.

_He_ could have been remade into something singular and whole and served the gods as joyously as any of their creations of light.

“You called out to me,” she said, “Across the vastness of this place I could hear you.”

The beast raised his staff and he swiped his hand through the air in a dismissive gesture.

“You are suffering,” the goddess continued, a veil of ice rising from her flowing hair and falling in a path of crystal lattice behind her, “It burns like a beacon. It took me this long to reach you and the way here was fraught.”

That much he could believe, for the Mist was a force of its own, an element of creation that the gods could use when they wished, but not harness, and in it were many mysteries. Much like himself it was a power that could be restrained, but never fully controlled.

She drew nearer still and that was enough for the beast. It unleashed the power that he had channeled, a wave of flame flowing from his staff towards her.

The fire parted to either side of the goddess, licking flames growing sluggish and then still, replaced by jagged tongues of ice.

“You are powerful indeed,” she smiled, a cold smile on cold, delicate features. Ephemeral as a snowflake, unyielding as the glaciers that entombed the highest mountains, “But I am more so.”

That he could see, but that would not stop him from fighting. He had stood defiant against his own creators and would stand the same against a pretender, no matter how mighty.

More power gathered, shimmering in waves of furnace-heat around him.

Another pass of his staff and they dissipated upwards, molten flame raining down from above.

It exploded into shards of frost around her.

A snap of her fingers and countless spears of ice were hurled his way, keen and cutting as the winter wind. He was able to knock each aside with his staff, deflecting them, melting them before they could touch him, sprays of frigid water sizzling against his skin, shrouding him in vapor.

By the time it cleared she was standing directly before him, tall enough to look the beast in the eye, holding his staff aside with one hand.

He fought to bring it between them, shove her away with the ornate emblem that capped it.

She held it in place effortlessly.

Outmatched by far more than he expected, he waited to see what the goddess what would do.

If he’d correctly ascertained her nature, she was being of creation and therefore had no reason to seek his power, unless she wished to defy her nature and destroy him.

Though would it be defying her nature to do so? They were opposed after all.

Perhaps she fought that in herself as much as he fought the beast that he was a part of.

The beast, swung a massive paw at her, nails like razored hooves doing nothing more than snagging a few strands of hair so cold they burned as she moved her head to the side.

In a flash both of her hands were on the staff he wielded, twisting it in his grasp and bringing it up to block the beast’s free paw with the emblem topping it.

“Do not fight me,” it was as much a warning as it was a plea, “Let me sooth your suffering.”

_How_? He wanted to demand, but the horned helm he wore robbed him of that. The promise of healing, of wholeness, was enough to make him hesitate, though only for an instant.

Belias had given himself wholly to his duty and at this point to lose that would be to lose himself and surely the goddess would demand that from him as payment for her favor.

He served the Dynast King and no other.

“You have your duty,” she spoke with the wisdom befitting the divine. If only they chose to use that wisdom more often, “I will not take that from you, I promise.”

She shifted her grip, one hand in the center of his staff, so that she could raise the other into the swirling Mist to trace a sigil.

Ephemeral frost willed into permanence by the Mist around them, it was an imitation of the binding that held him, her words given form.

He searched its intricacies for any hint of deceit and found none.

The glyph bound her to her word as surely as he was bound to his duty. That and nothing more.

It was impressive that a goddess would bind herself thusly, even in such a small way, and he relented.

The beast though, much like the Mist, had a will of its own, and remained defiant.

Without his guidance to channel the force it gathered, heat flowed in all directions, violent and aimless as a wildfire, exhausting itself in its fury, leaving the beast with nothing more than its own strength to fight her.

“I only wish to take your loneliness for a time, if you’ll let me.”

Oh, so that was what she desired?

He had never imagined such a thing, but if she was as human as the form she wore he could understand. Such a cherished mimicry, one that he had no means of entertaining.

Yet she was a goddess, bound by her words so he would allow her that much.

If she was able to.

After all he had witnessed he was not incapable of curiosity, for to believe that there was nothing new in all of creation was an arrogance that he was unique among his kin for being unwilling to indulge.

A goddess, even a minor one, was capable of anything she wished when all that was real in this place was them, their bindings and the Mist all around.

She pulled the staff from the beast’s paws, though it fought her.

It clattered to the ground near his hooves, that there was, for the moment, the idea of ground for it to make sound against amused him. It was such a departure from the usual silence of the place he inhabited.

Beneath his helm he smiled, wondering what the goddess would do next.

Given what she’d said it shouldn’t have proved as much of a surprise as it was.

She grabbed him by the wrists of his larger arms, the force of it lifting his hooves from his concept of ground. She pinned those arms to the air behind him and held him there, allowing his smaller set of arms, the one truly his own to explore her body, offered so willingly to him.

Veins of shimmering ice ran across her smooth skin, and his fingers traced the pattern of them of their own volition as though there was meaning to decipher in them.

Her own fingers slid from the wrists of the beast’s arms and wove through his coarse mane, finding the place where his shoulders rested against the chest of the beast, testing the juncture there.

Her touch was cold against the place that was purely him and he shuddered.

“Am I hurting you?” She asked, concerned despite how she must have known the answer. Her touch was agony given what they were both were, but one he would endure.

He shook his head violently, even as the beast kicked iron shod hooves against air, tail lashing violently behind it.

Flowing veils were brushed aside, revealing silver armor beneath, arcing shapes like the sharp feathers of frost across a winter pond.

Even exposed as she was, she was far from vulnerable. The armor, burning cold gave his fingers new patterns to trace, first across her chest, seeking some hidden latch that might release it so that would fall away, allowing him access to what little remained hidden.

The silvered surface was smooth, unbroken by any marks of forging, for she was a goddess and such would only exist if she wished them to.

His fingers curled against the sides of the armor, seeking what lay beneath.

She watched intently, waiting to see what he meant to do.

It was a game to her, of course, one that he eagerly played, for he had no desire to hasten this meeting to its end.

Fingers too numb to feel must have found something, for the armor shifted on her, a gap allowing admittance between it and her cool, soft skin. Carefully he lifted it from her, unable to detect and mechanism that might have released it, and let it fall to the side.

It landed next to his staff with a sound like silver chimes.

The veins of ice continued their pattern across her chest, glistening over the shape of her breasts.

He watched her in glimpses through the slits of his helm. This close he could only see her in fractions, shining blue-black eyes, a smile, a hand tracing patterns of frost across his skin and that of the beast, outlining a boundary between that which was him and that which was it, but lingering on neither for too long. The entirety of him held her interest and, like all things, it wasn’t fair.

Like the gods that created him and the worlds, he could be jealous, possessive, and he wanted her attention to be his alone. To share with the beast that was as much a part of him as his own thoughts galled him so.

His rage was nothing compared to its, captive growls echoing through its chest, vibrating like distant thunder in his head.

Hooves fought for purchase against nothing as he experienced the sensation of being lifted even higher.

“Go on.”

Her encouragement was unnecessary.

He let his hands rest against her waist as he considered what to do.

His hands were large enough that he was able to slide his thumbs down to the thinnest part of her armor and he craned his neck to look down and catch a glimpse of what was barely concealed.

Her laughter was a thin sheet of ice over water breaking, for his fingers were nowhere near deft enough to slide beneath and find what he sought.

He could touch though, tease as she did, and he chuckled to himself as she shifted, first one way and then the other, alternately seeking and moving away from his touch.

Where on any other being one might have felt heat, though nowhere as deep as that which made him, on her there was sweet cold, this time soothing rather than numbing.

Luck, or skill, or her mercy alone, brought his fingers to a place that made the last of her armor slide free, down her legs.

She stepped out of it with the grace of a dancer, exposed fully to him.

They floated in the nothing around them, carried in a meaningless orbit, together the center of gravity in a world that was just the two of them.

If she wished she could have pulled him free of the duty that bound him, leaving him adrift in the endlessness of the Mist, but she didn’t.

Because she had bound herself with a promise.

She pressed against him, ignoring the heat and the beast’s rage, letting his fingers investigate the arcing patterns of ice across the insides of her thighs. Those patterns guided him to the place to touch, the one that made her gasp and tense, then rock against his hands.

Slow as it was to realize her intent, the beast eventually did and it responded, heat welling up in its loins, a burning fire of need that would not abate.

The goddess raised herself up, letting that monstrous anatomy brush against her. A smile that he saw for less than an instant before it moved past his view, played across lips that were warm despite being pale purple. It was the smile that made them so.

Her intent was clear, to quench that heat, smother it within herself.

She had been plain about her reason for seeking him out, saw no distinction between him and the beast, and like it, he was muzzled, unable to warn her.

The act was not consummated in a loving embrace, for the part of him that could engage in that consummation was not capable of such things, knowing only force.

The beast thrust roughly into her, all the way in before it could fully realize what it had done. It paused in mute wonder, buried to the hilt in her, fur ticking her thighs as she tried to better position herself.

What did it feel? He longed to know, but that, like so many things would be forever beyond him due to the imperfect nature of his creation.

More importantly, what did she feel? Not pain. Though she had gasped she remained in place, only making the smallest movements, perhaps seeking to grow accustomed to what she had taken inside her.

The beast, once it fully grasped what had happened, was far less hesitant, thrusting eagerly and with a force that might have threatened to buck her off.

His hands went to her hips, not to hold her in place, for if she wished there was no way he could have kept her there, but to support her so that she might find her balance.

It proved unnecessary, her hands finding purchase in the fur of his mane until she was able to settle into a rhythm of her own and, in doing so, force the beast to move in time with her.

“You are worthy,” she whispered, the words echoing through his bronze helm.

Long nails, nearly claws, though not as great as those of the beast that was also him, unwound from fur to traced cooling lines across his chest, noting the demarcation between him and it. As surely as he was banished to live in the Mist, he could live in that touch.

Those nails of hers then scratched against his helm, the vibrations echoing in a soft, sweet music that was felt as much as heard.

“Let me see you,” she said, her lips against the beast’s helm, the sweet cold flowing between the slits in it, even as she ran her fingers over the front of his own helm. The words were for him, yet Belias felt fear. Would she free that which was bound, exposing herself to its fangs and rage?

It proved groundless, her hands slid from the beast’s mane to the horns of his helm, and though, just as with her armor, there was no means of removing it, she found a way, lifting the heavy thing to hold it against her chest, even as the beast thrust into her.

She rode it with a practiced ease, one arm moving to brace against the beast’s chest, just above Belias’ shoulder.

Perhaps she had grown accustomed to the feel of it as he had to the cold of her creeping up from the beast’s furred groin to reach his chest.

To feel that much of her was a thing of wonder.

Pulling back from the beast, she stared at his naked face, a visage so horrific that the gods had hidden it in the instant of his creation. She smiled.

In that smile he was indeed worthy.

Never lovely or beloved, but worthy.

Belias had long since learned to take what victories he could.

Letting go of his helm she brought her fingers to his lips. He kissed them with a hunger that, by nature, he should have been incapable of. To feel that much was a victory in itself.

So cold against his tongue, his touch would never bring warmth to them, just as she could never quell the fire that was his nature.

“Why have you come here?” His own voice surprised him, hoarse from eternities disuse, speaking a tongue long dead. She had given her reason, but he wanted the truth of it. His suffering may have made her aware of him, but like all suffering, it was easily ignored.

“To touch something,” her words were cold in the air between, her fingers on his lips colder still, “To feel something.”

Selfish, pure and beautiful, to want to give herself to the likes of him for her own sake. Truly fitting of a goddess.

He gasped as she rocked against the beast, gritting teeth more akin to fangs he struggled to feel what it did. That part was not of him and all he could do was imagine.

It was large, that much he knew, and unbefittingly inhuman for the likes of her. Given what it was, it must have rested like a burning brand inside of her, an unquenchable fire.

If it pained her she gave no sign, her trembling against it and him inscrutable.

“Do you have a name?” he growled hoarsely, wanting what he could take of her, a name to hold in his mouth as he held her body with his hands, seeking out the places that made her tremble all the more.

“Shiva,” she panted, grinding hard against the beast, pressing her body into his grasp.

It was a strange name, but it fit her, harsh and alien, but also human, so much more so than any in his collection of names and titles.

“And you,” her voice hitched, “Are Belias the Gigas.”

“Just Belias,” he groaned, wishing that he could lean free of the beast to bury his face in the place here her neck met her shoulder, to feel the coolness of her against his lips. There was no need for titles in such a place, only longing.

“Belias,” Shiva said carefully, as though testing the weight of the word, then again, louder, more urgently, “Belias!”

There was little he could do, urge the beast yes, but even then he had to be careful. He reached for her, tried to wrap his arms around her and hold her close.

Shiva pressed against him and he graced her body with frantic, worshipful kisses. Every breath a prayer, every movement an act of devotion.

It was so for both of them, Esper and goddess alike.

Desperation and need made them equals in the moment they shared.

The beast, harsh and instinctive, placed its massive paws against her shoulders, forcing her up and down and then down hard, though she could have fought it if she wished.

He could feel its urgency as it thrust into her, harder and harder, his body shaking with its efforts.

Shiva must have felt it as well.

“Belias!” She cried out, a plea for restraint that was not his to give.

The most he could do was hold her against him, endure it with her.

Her nails dug patterns of burning cold against his skin, steam clouding his vision, frost searing his lungs as, for a moment, they both gave in to what they were.

It hurt, her as much as it did him, that he was certain of, but she didn’t pull away as the beast reached climax in great, shuddering waves that wracked his body along with its. She held on, clinging to him as though he was all that was real in this place.

As his own shared climax subsided she reached hers, tensing and twisting against him, trying to drive the beast deeper into her.

It was a desperate, animal moment, pure only because of her nature.

Looking up he could see her unobscured face contorted in a grimace of agonized delight, hair falling down her shoulders, disheveled and flowing.

She was beautiful and pure, and in that moment entirely his.

The beast groaned and slumped against air that no longer supported them.

Entwined, the two of them fell slowly through the Mist until they were able to find some semblance of ground on which they could rest and disentangle themselves.

Both sets of arms shook as his hooves struggled to find purchase so that he might rise.

She was the first to her feet, of course, drifting veils again surrounding her, though she had not yet donned her armor. Perhaps it was a task still too daunting for her trembling limbs.

Perhaps it was unnecessary in the face of the intimacy they had shared.

“Thank you,” she said, voice shaking as if her breathing had yet to leave the rhythm that it had found while riding him.

He nodded curtly, finding himself once again mute despite being free of his helm.

What was there that he could hope to say? Giving thanks of his own felt like it would cheapen her own gratitude, as though he was trying to cling to what had, for a fleeting time, held them as equals.

Him, the equal to a goddess? Laughable.

“Shiva,” he sighed her name in the same intonation that one might whisper a prayer.

That seemed to suffice, for she smiled with a radiance that rivaled any warmth the flame that made him might give.

“Thank you,” she repeated, offering him his helm, which he donned as though it had never been removed.

The weight of it was oppressive, but that its absence was suddenly even more so.

Belias watched her departure in fleeting glimpses through the slits, shimmering hair, fluttering veils, a moment’s hesitation, and then she was beyond sight.

He remained still until he could no longer sense her and then picked up his staff to resume his vigil.

Shifting his weight on hooves still unsteady from exertion, he gave thought to what had happened.

It was too much by far to hope that such a chance encounter would ever come again, but in the fleeting glance back, the tone of her second time thanking him, there had been a promise. If not of a second meeting, then of something.

His duty was built on an equally scant hope so he would endure as he always had.

Alone, but not without hope.


End file.
